Restless
by Berlin
Summary: An AU manyparter set during Sark's tenure at SD6 in S2. Chapter 6 now up.
1. Chapter 1

From the corner of his eye, Sark watched his computer monitor, at the same time cursing his pathetic weakness. He couldn't seem to keep his eyes off the damn thing and he couldn't bear to turn it off and do without its now comforting artificial glare.

_If you need to, just look at it, you damn stupid fool._

Head resting wearily in his hands, he raked his fingers through his hair and gave in to his voyeuristic impulses. Turning in his chair, he watched closely as Sydney Bristow carried on a conversation with her partner Marcus Dixon. Sydney's face was animated as she spoke, her expression bright and her hands gesturing wildly; something, Sark had noted during his tenure at SD-6, which only happened around Dixon or Marshall Flinkman. Sydney's expression was never that unshuttered around Sloane and certainly not around himself; with them Sydney was all business. Restrained and unemotional. Sydney made it quite obvious who she liked and disliked, he mused dryly.

He loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, already having discarded his jacket. Leaning back in the chair, Sark rested his bared elbows on the chairs arms and watched Sydney; the way her lips quirked when Dixon made a joke, how she tucked her hair behind her ear and how her graceful, long-fingered hands wove in the air as she illustrated a point with her hands.

_Beautiful but dangerous, like fire._

Every day was the same at SD-6. Sark had no official duties other than occasionally reporting to Sloane to elucidate further over points that had come up during his initial briefing, so he was left to his own devices in the elegantly minimalist office he'd been assigned for hours on end. Upon realizing that he could tap into the security camera feed, Sark had taken to familiarizing himself with the staff of SD-6 as they sat at their desks working.

At first, he had denied himself the pleasure of watching Sydney without her knowledge, instead forcing himself to observe other members of Sloane's team at random. Finally, he'd given in and allowed himself those pointless glimpses of Sydney unguarded. Of course, she still steadily maintained that glamour of innocent obedience and loyalty to SD-6, but knowing that she was a double agent and in fact loyal to the CIA, Sark had easily been able to see past the facade.

On the second full day of watching Sydney, having made these observations, Sark realized his mistake in permitting himself to watch Sydney. He was addicted, now, to watching her, to musing over her as she sat, head bent, doing her paper work. He was irritated when she didn't come in and waited in excited anticipation for a group briefing to have an excuse to get closer to the unknowing object of his intense scrutiny.

When, at last, at the end of the day he went home to his empty, lifeless apartment, he couldn't drag his mind away from her.

He imagined conversing with Sydney sans hostility over dinner as he ate in solitude.

He remembered a particular facial expression in precise detail as he knotted his tie in the morning and recalled it again at night as he removed the tie.

There were the predictable erotic dreams in the hours of sleep he managed to catch, ones that were so vivid that they came to him unbidden as he drove to the office and made him shift in his seat.

The lonely existence he lived because of his obligation to Sloane was driving him insane by gradual degrees. No visiting the theatre or opera, no spontaneous trips down the coast and no dallying with women; at least not for free. He functioned autonomously and was too preoccupied to devise discreet distractions for his leisure hours, such as they were.

He lay low at the beginning with difficulty, chafing at the attempt at deliberate anonymity which he could achieve naturally anywhere in Europe. Now it was an unconscious thing; scanning the horizon for signs of a party other than his SD-6 minders following him, keeping his actions unremarkable when in public. He prayed for a mission that involved him doing something.

As it was, his understandable boredom had given way to deep-rooted restlessness; a worse fate for a man who needed to have complete control over his life, who craved order and symmetry, especially on a day to day basis. In his restlessness he was weakened, impaired. Like a love-struck swain, he stared for hours at an LCD image of a woman who loathed him.

He made up entire conversations between them in his head and fantasized about Sydney having sudden changes of heart that resulted in tender lovemaking.

Or finding herself drawn to him despite her hatred and visiting him at his apartment for sex of the fast-and-hard variety.

Or, he conceded to himself, he just imagined touching her, looking into her eyes and for once not seeing righteous animosity.

_How the mighty have fallen_, he thought bitterly, _struck down by ennui and the smallest seed of discontent._

_Francie's romance novels must be affecting me more than I though_, Sydney mused as she shook herself from thoughts of intimate candle-lit trysts with handsome, blonde Englishmen that were becoming alarmingly frequent these days. She hadn't seen Sark for over a week, a fact for which she was grateful, being paranoid, as she was, of coming face-to-face with him and finding that he somehow knew she entertained erotic thoughts about him. She put her bag in the front passenger seat of the car and got in and just sat with her eyes closed, relishing the end of another day at SD-6. Her facial muscles felt strained and cramped from the constant smiles she dragged from somewhere and she felt edgy and tired.

_More... restless_, she amended, _and caged in._ She turned the key in the ignition and frowned at the absence of engine noise. Turning it again and finding the same lack of sound, Sydney groaned and got out of the car, popping the hood before slamming the door. Staring at the mechanics of her car and not locating the problem, Sydney pushed the hood back down and retrieved her cell from her bag, dialing Will's number. The call went straight to voice mail so she hung up and dialed the number of the directory service, asking for a mechanic.

When a tow to the mechanic had been arranged, Sydney retrieved her bag and walked out of the garage, informing the attendant that the tow-truck would be coming for her car. Minutes later, Sydney found herself out in the cool but heavy night air trying without success to flag down a cab. Swearing, Sydney mentally thanked God for her exceptional good fortune and decided to walk the five or so block's to Francie's restaurant.

As she walked, she wondered, not for the first time, if not seeing Sark indicated the end of his alliance with Sloane. She knew she couldn't ask Sloane, knew that if he didn't tell her something she couldn't ask because he'd decided she and all of the other people at SD-6 didn't need to know. Lips twisting wryly, she thought it would be just like Sloane to dissolve his partnership with Sark, maybe even kill him, and not say a word. The thought that Sark was dead was disconcerting. Earlier in the week she'd questioned whether she should appease the impatient sensation and ask her father if he knew anything and had then blocked the thought immediately when she realized what the connotations of such a telling move would be.

It was as if, she thought, she was worried about Sark, which was odd considering that she wanted to break his annoying cute nose every time she saw him or at least make it bleed a little. Blinking, she realized she was on the threshold of Francie's and shook her head to clear it as she opened the door. Francie, on seeing her, broke off the conversation she was conducting behind the bar with one of her waiters and rushed over.

"Hey, Syd" she said, kissing her cheek and engulfing her in a hug.

"Hey, France. I have had the worst day."

Francie immediately ushered her over to a small table at the window and sat down opposite her.

"What's up?"

"Tons of things. Firstly," Sydney said, counting on her fingers, "there's something wrong with my car so I just had to have it towed to the shop. Then I couldn't get a cab so I had to walk here. In new shoes" Sydney added, grimacing.

Francie smiled sympathetically. "You poor thing. Luckily, I have just the thing to make you feel better." Francie went over to the bar and retrieved a wine bottle from the shelf on the wall. She walked back over and held it out to Sydney.

"We just got this in today. A guy, a really hot guy," Francie added with a big grin, "came in and ordered this the other day. He said that no where else could get it in and that all these other places suggested he come to me because of my contacts from when I did party-planning."

Sydney's eyes wandered over the label of the bottle. _Chateau Petrus, 1982 _it said in beautiful but practical script. She looked up at Francie.

"That's so good, France. That means that people are talking about you and even recommending you to people."

"I know, isn't it great!" Francie smiled happily and reclaimed the bottle from Sydney, uncorking it. She poured two fairly large splashes of rich red wine into the glasses she'd bought over and handed one to Sydney. They tapped the glasses together gently and each took a sip. Francie closed her eyes with a long "Mmmmm" and Sydney simply enjoyed the wine in silence. Francie took another sip then set the wine glass down on the table and smiled at Sydney.

"When the guy I ordered the wine from told me how good and outrageously expensive the wine was, I had to get some for myself, so I ordered the two bottles the cute guy wanted, one for the restaurant and two for myself."

"Clever. You can justify getting the wine you want by getting some for the restaurant too."

"That was my thought."

Francie and Sydney sat and enjoyed their wine in silence for a few minutes before Francie said: "So, speaking of hot guys, how's that guy at work?"

Sydney's mind immediately shot to Sark and her pulse leaped. _Calm down _she told herself as she realized that Francie had meant Vaughn.

Francie noticed Sydney's reaction and grinned.

"Anything you want to tell your best friend, Syd?"

"No. It's... it's nothing. Really. I promise," she added when Francie raised an eyebrow in speculation.

"Okay, I won't push. Do you want to have something to eat?"

"I was thinking of getting something to go and going home and having a nice, long bath."

"Sounds good. Do you want to take this bottle with you?" Francie asked, indicating the bottle on the table.

"That'd be great."

Sydney smiled warmly at Francie, who stood, finished her and wine and started for the bar.

"I know just what you should have to eat. Wait here and I'll have it ready in twenty minutes. Then I'll call you a cab."

Sydney thanked her friend and sat back to finish her wine, watching the pedestrian traffic through the window. In minutes, her mind had meandered back to Sark and the edginess that thoughts of him seemed to cause. She could no longer say that her primary feeling towards him was disgust; somehow, all of the hate and superiority had just melted away, leaving this curiosity and something else she couldn't define. There were just so many nameless emotions that roiled and churned chaotically in the pit of her stomach when she thought about Sark that she couldn't find a fitting name for the total phenomenon.

She had never been able to reconcile the man with the crimes unless she'd seen him commit them first hand. Mostly, she just fought with him and had seen him, immaculately dressed in the control room of some facility or other. She'd wondered how he was with her mother and had toyed with the idea of asking her mother what his first name was. Smiling, she acknowledged to herself how frustrating it was not knowing. She'd tried to guess a few times, matching possible first names with his surname but nothing had seemed right.

It didn't seem fair that he could know all he did about her, about her family history and maybe about her present situation, despite what her mother had said to the contrary, while she knew nearly nothing about him. Marshall had said that he more than likely spent a considerable amount of time in Ireland and she thought that Sark must be only a few years or so older than her if he could get to where he was in her mother's organization. She wondered if he had gone to college and decided that he must have, purely because he seemed so accomplished and knowledgeable.

Lost in her Sark-oriented ponderings, Sydney was unaware of Francie sitting back down beside her, Francie's humongous knowing grin or the bag containing three large take-away containers that sat on the table in front of her. Francie snapped her fingers in Sydney's face and smiled as Sydney's eyes focused on her, startled.

"The cab'll be here in five" Francie said simply, her smirk broadening.

Sydney nodded and set down the now empty wine glass. Francie recorked the bottle and pushed it towards the bag radiating heat.

"You're a complete space-cadet tonight, Syd."

"I know. I'm sorry, it's just that I'm tired and it's making me feel a little bit out of it."

"That's okay. Cab's here, I think."

They stood and Sydney picked up the wine and the take-out and let Francie hug her.

"See you later, France. Thanks for this" Sydney said, opening the restaurant door. She stepped outside and turned back to wave to Francie only to find her cab poached when she looked back.

"Son of a bitch."

Resigning herself to another walk in her new shoes, Sydney walked up the crowded sidewalk to find a less busy place to flag down a cab. Turning a corner into a darker and completely deserted street, Sydney collided with a tall figure that seemed to be made of shadows. Her instincts kicking in saved her dinner from certain death on the footpath and had her tensed up, ready to fight. She forced herself to relax, mentally telling herself this was the real world now, not the espionage-centred realm she usually inhabited. Peering at the face of the man she'd collided with, she gasped.

_Sark._

She should have known it was the angel-haired killer purely from his sauntering prowl and his habit of emerging from the shadows when she least expected.

Her heart sped up again and she and Sark just stared at each other in the dim light, his arms, which he put around her to steady her, turning to solid steel bands around her, his hands tightening their grip on her shoulders.

"Are you likely to punch me if I tell you to watch where you're going in future?" Sark asked warily.

"Not unless you punch me first while you say it."

"Oh. Good." Sark removed his arms and straightened the sleeves of his navy woolen overcoat before dropping his hands by his side. They continued to stare at each other uncomfortably.

The sound of a car passing them at an excessively high speed drew them from their shared reverie. Sark stepped closer until they both stood in the light. Both blinked and Sydney stepped back in an attempt to give herself some breathing room. Sark, for the first time, looked down at her take-away bundle and protectively cradled wine bottle. Sydney's handbag hung off her arm lifelessly. He slowly wrenched the bottle out of Sydney's grip and studied the label.

"This is what I came out for. Tell me, did you get it from a restaurant around the corner?"

Their eyes met and Sydney nodded.

"My friend owns the restaurant and she thought I might like the wine," Sydney explained, not believing she was currently making banal conversation in a dark street with the assassin she'd been fantasizing over for weeks.

"Do you?" Sark asked, regarding her with an openly curious expression.

"Oh, yes" Sydney said, then mentally kicking herself for her breathy tone.

Sark gently pried the plastic bag from her tight grip, pulled out the hottest container and held it up to his nose, sniffing softly.

"Irish stew, I think. Should go nicely." He slid the container back into the bag. Sydney's eyes were fixed on his hands, mesmerized. She shook her head and smiled.

"Now you've gone and spoilt it for me. Francie had wanted it to be a surprise."

Facing her, Sark sucked in a deep breath and committed that smile to memory. It had to be the first genuine one she'd ever gifted him with. He tried to regain his composure.

"Francie?"

"My friend, who owns the restaurant" Sydney explained quietly. Almost, he thought, conversationally.

Sark heard himself issue a non-committal "Hmmm" in reply. He looked down at the bag and bottle he held and offered them back to Sydney, who took them unhesitatingly, giving him another of those sweet little smiles. He inhaled deeply once more and felt himself smiling slightly in response.

"Do you want to have dinner with me?" Sydney asked. Shocked, Sark looked at her and noted that she seemed as surprised at the offer as he did. He wanted to accept immediately, but held back. He gave her a change to try to withdraw the offer gracefully. Instead, she pressed on.

"Francie always gives me too much," Sydney explained, "and you appear to approve of the wine. Will you share my stew with me?"

Sark felt dazed. It was like one of his pathetic fantasies where he and Sydney did normal domestic things together before retiring to bed for hugs and kisses. He knew he did not have it in him to refuse.

"Thank you, I'd like that."

_Thank you, I'd like that! Idiot, damn stupid idiot! _

Sydney grinned and shifted the bag and the bottle in her arms. Sark, remembering those long-ago instilled manners, awkwardly removed the bag and bottle from Sydney's arms and was gifted with a smile.

"My place or yours?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"Yours. If that's okay."

"Of course. My car's not far away." Sark gestured vaguely further up the street.

"Shall we?" Sydney asked, proceeding Sark down the darkened street. Walking behind her, Sark wondered why the hell God had suddenly remembered him and was shining down upon him. And how long this divine providence would last. He shifted the hot plastic bag in his arms and dug into his coat pocket for the car keys as he neared Sydney waiting at his midnight blue Mercedes. He first unlocked Sydney's door, handing her the bag and bottle before opening the door for her. She smiled up at him as she sat down. Suppressing the urge to grin like the idiot he'd already decided he was, he walked around the car to the driver's side, unlocked the door and got in.

Settling next to Sydney in his car was one of the most surreal experiences of his life, especially as he knew he'd be dining with her in less than twenty minutes. He started the car and pulled away from the curb, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road, not Sydney.

_The road, not Sydney. The road, not Sydney. The road, not Sydney._

As he drove he attempted to slow his racing heart, to quell his impulse to grin and to tamp down his sexual reaction to Sydney's mere presence. He allowed himself to look over at her and found her smiling mysteriously at him, making him gulp hard before weakly smiling back.

_God, I have absolutely no idea what I am doing._

Before long, he'd turned into the private car park of his apartment complex. Turning off the car, he forced himself to get out and slowly open Sydney's door for her. Cuddling the bag and bottle with one arm, Sydney held out her other to Sark for him to help her out of the car. He took it slowly, reverently and schooled his face into a blank but charming mask to hide his inner anxiety. Locking the car, he led Sydney to the elevator and pressed the up button.

Beside him, Sydney began to hum, the notes soft. It made him even more aware of her, still dressed in her pantsuit and sweater from the office earlier and standing less than a metre away. As they stepped into the elevator he recognized the tune; it was an old one Irina used to sing to him when he was a child. _Sherry_, he thought, _Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons_. Irina told him that she and Jack had first danced to it a lifetime ago. Sark wondered if Sydney knew the significance of it to her parents and pathetically told himself that Sydney humming the song now, with him, signified a new beginning.

As the doors opened on his apartment Sark stepped forward and turned to face Sydney. She walked forward slowly without looking at him and Sark slowly took the food and wine from her and went to put them on the kitchen bench. He hung his coat over the edge of the couch and could hear Sydney walking around the living room, touching his black obsidian statuettes and trailing her fingers over the top of the couch as she neared. Sark watched as Sydney walked over to the large window and opened the door, stepping onto the balcony. He went to join her, passing her handbag sitting on the end table that vibrated softly. He ignored it and stepped into the night air.

"The view is magical" Sydney said, indicating the panorama before them. He nodded wordlessly and stepped closer, his chest separated from her back by only a few inches.

"Would you like to eat now?" Sark asked, his breath tickling Sydney's ear and stirring her hair softly. Sydney suppressed a shiver and didn't dare to turn around, knowing that he was close.

"Mmmmm" she answered, still transfixed by the not too distant twinkle of the lights of the city. She heard Sark walk back inside his dark and tastefully minimalist apartment, still marveling at her nerve in going through with this dinner.

She did not know what had possessed her and made her issue the invitation to Sark or what had made him accept. He was an enigma, daring you to come closer to learn his secrets and not bothering to conceal the danger of doing just that. Sydney dearly wanted to know him better, even personally, to find out what drove him and what he thought about what he did. He so rarely gave any clues as to what he was thinking. Sydney wanted to bask in his dark intensity, to be the focus of his attention and energy. She wanted to reach out and touch him, skin to skin, to feel that undisguised power that lay just beneath the surface.

When she shivered from the cold, she went in to find that Sark had set the table, lit candles and was pouring some of the Petrus into tall-stemmed wine glasses. He looked up and Sydney felt naked under his gaze. It beckoned her closer and Sydney obeyed, dropping her jacket over the top of the long corner couch. Sark held out her chair for her and pushed it in when she seated herself. He moved around the table slowly to take his own chair and when they sat eye to eye, Sark raised his glass. Sydney mirrored his action and they tapped their glasses together softly.

Sydney's mouth watered as she bought the rim of the glass to her lips to sip the exquisite wine. She closed her eyes to better savor the wine and when she opened them, found herself lost in an impenetrable glacial blue gaze. They set their glasses down in tandem and Sydney looked down at the stew on her plate. Sark had rewarmed it and steam curled off it suggestively. Sydney inhaled the strong, spicy aroma of beef, vegetables and paprika. She picked up the elegantly simple fork and dove it under the stew and the mashed potatoes beneath it.

Raising it to her lips, she became aware of Sark's steady and intense gaze. She took the tines of the fork into her mouth and felt a shiver of feminine pride when Sark swallowed hard and inhaled deeply. He picked up his own fork and they both began to eat, eyes locked. He sipped at his wine in between bites and poured them both more when he had only a little left. Sydney sipped appreciatively and touched at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Sark finished first and settled back to watch Sydney eat with undisguised interest. Sydney felt a heady rush at being caught in the darkening blue stare.

As she finished, she picked up her wine glass and swallowed the rest. Sark picked up the bottle and was about to pour her more before she stopped him, putting her hand over the rim of her glass.

"Don't you want more?" he asked her, the double meaning clear.

"Yes." Sydney decided she did want more and was determined to get it. She removed her hand and Sark poured a good measure into her glass, pouring the rest of the bottle into his own. Sydney uncrossed and recrossed her legs, sliding her foot slowly up the outside of Sark's calf. She leaned forward slightly from the waist and took a big sip of wine, tracing her lower lip with her tongue subtly, knowing that he watched.

Sark felt as if he were on fire and getting hotter in slow degrees. Sydney's lips gleaned in the candlelight and he felt hard and edgy and impatient with the game they were playing. He finished the wine in a gulp and went to stand. He took up both of their plates and set them on the sink. Walking back over to Sydney at the table, he braced his hand on the top of his chair.

"Along with the stew, Francie also sent along a rather large slab of apple pie and custard. If you wanted, we could have that and open a nice desert wine I have."

Sydney stretched sinuously and purred an "Mmmmm". Sark felt a lone bead of sweat trail down his spine and his heart lurched, the frantic pace increasing.

He went back into the kitchen and retrieved the pie and custard and was taking two dessert plates from an overhead cupboard when Sydney walked in and set the wine glasses on the sink. Sark froze as he set the plates down, feeling Sydney behind him. She edged closer bit by bit, taking what seemed an eternity to fit her front to his back. Her arms came around his chest.

Sark felt his abdominal muscles clench painfully and his already considerably hard erection begin to throb. Slowly, ever so slowly, a hand snaked its way down his torso, pressed firmly to the well-defined muscles and drawing to a gentle halt on his right hipbone. By now, Sark was in an ecstasy of anticipation. He truly wondered whether this was real; the painful hardness, the woman wrapped around him and this whole scenario. He didn't think even his mind was capable of creating something that felt this real.

The hand on his hip slid down a little further and Sark prayed fervently for it to stop at the same time as he prayed for it to continue, to slide right down until it cupped him, unzipped his jeans and learned his shape without obstruction. The hand did neither. It edged under the hem of the sapphire blue sweater he wore and two fingers walked up his stomach before the index finger circled his navel. The groan he let out had been a long time coming.

The two fingers continued to play upon his chest, bunching up the sweater as they went and tracing the hard muscled ridges. The other hand stirred into life and divided Sark's attention as two teasing fingers began to circle a nipple slowly. The second hand slid down as slowly as the first had slid up and Sark scrunched his eyes tightly shut, knowing where the hand was going.

A lone fingernail ran down his fly excruciatingly slowly, causing him to buck against it.

That first hand began to draw away from his nipples and as it joined its partner undoing his jeans, Sark knew he was in for trouble.

As his fly came open, the top button undone and his boxers were edged down, the head of Sark's penis found its way into the air and the throbbing intensified.

Sweat on his upper lip and forehead beaded.

Sark saw red as he tried to close his eyes tighter.

His temples pounded out his racing pulse in time with his cock.

A hand fisted around him.

Feather-light fingertips traced the meandering of prominent veins.

Its mate lovingly smoothed over his left hipbone.

He began to gasp and groan alternately.

He unwillingly bucked hard and the hand tightened.

It began to pump up and down.

Sark knew he couldn't take much more.

"No.…don't," he panted, "please…"

The continual stream of breath against his back didn't falter, nor did the bliss-inducing ministrations on his unbearably hardened length.

He began to move in a counter-rhythm with the pumping hand, getting more and more desperate, and for once not having to imagine Sydney's hand in place of his own because this time, it was.

His hands rested balled up on the counter-top and he was bent forward over them.

Sydney's breasts pushed against his back and her hips occasionally pushed against his tensed thighs, making him start.

He decided to try the pleading again.

"Sydney...ohhh...please, don't'... I.….ahh."

She declined to show him mercy.

He wondered feverishly if she knew he was only partially serious about the stopping.

She increased the tempo and his breathing became even more laboured and ragged.

He was on the verge of coming and they both knew it.

Opening his eyes briefly to ease the tension in them, Sark looked up at the open cupboard and knew that his apartment would never again feel as lifeless and inhospitable as it had before this.

He began to feel the tingling at the base of his penis that indicated that his climax was upon him.

Sydney's hand pumped faster and the hand on his hipbone tightened.

Sark came in a blinding rush and hunched forward.

He felt like crying he was that relieved to have found his release. Unclenching his spasming hands once he'd recovered and could breathe again, Sark grabbed a napkin and took Sydney's hand in his, wiping it gently. He righted himself dazedly, doing up zips and buttons. Sydney's hands had moved and her arms were now wrapped around his waist. Unlocking them, he turned and drew her to him, kissing her hard. Her response was immediate and passionate; she opened up her mouth and let his tongue inside to dance with her own. Sark brought a still sweaty palm up to cup Sydney's perfectly formed face and kissed her with all of his pent-up and now-released desire. He broke the kiss to allow them both a breath.

"Oh, God, Sydney that was..."

He looked down at her, unable to find the words to describe his climax. She smiled sweetly, kissed him gently and walked away to retrieve her jacket.

"I have to go," she said, putting on the jacket and buttoning it up then finding her bag. She walked over to the elevator doors and pressed the 'down' arrow. As the doors opened, and smiling, she stepped inside, she said, "Thanks for dinner" and was gone.

From the mouth of the kitchen Sark just stared at the closed elevator doors.

As they both replayed the events of the evening in their heads, Sydney in the cab and later in the bath, Sark lying slumped on his big leather couch, they both wondered;

_What happens now?_


	2. Chapter 2

_Julian Sark was a principled man, _the man himself mused, _I am the furthest thing from principled. He was composed and self-confident, I am edgy and self-conscious._

_Therefore, _he concluded, _I am not Julian Sark. I am a halfling. I am a shadow. I am-_

"Mr. Sark? Mr. Sark?"

Sark looked up from the sheaf of papers he had been staring at without seeing to find Sloane regarding him with an odd look. Leaning forward and bracing his elbows against the desktop, Sloane openly studied him. Where once Sark would have raised an eyebrow arrogantly in reply, he now fought the urge to squirm.

"You really aren't yourself lately" Sloane stated confidingly, as though he couldn't really believe it and didn't know if what he said was what he meant.

Sark shifted slightly under Sloane's curious gaze. "No?"

"No. Not at all. And I'm not the only one to notice. Jack Bristow reported to me this morning that he thought you were anxious about something. Anxious. That was his exact word. I don't think I could have been any more surprised to hear it than he was to think it, let alone say it."

A long and awkward pause followed that pronouncement. Sark was torn between vague nervousness at being so easily read by Arvin Sloane and a definite uneasy sensation that felt like nausea at the thought that Sloane knew that Sydney Bristow had not only had dinner with him, at his apartment of all places, but had later subjected him to the most powerful climax he'd ever experienced in his kitchen.

_In his kitchen, for God's sake. _

And that now his infatuation with Sydney, or whatever it was, was ten-times worse and that he was confused and edgy and countless other things. Not to mention that he was stalking Sydney Bristow and not in a good, predacious way either. No, he was pursuing her like some kind of weak, wretched cur that enjoyed the constant kicking's, proverbial and literal, that he was getting and was actually upset at the fact that she wouldn't acknowledge that she had jerked him off in his kitchen.

_Emotions_, he scoffed mentally. _He seemed to be finding bagsful these days._

_None he could overcome, unfortunately. _

For three weeks, since the morning after the incident in his kitchen, he had had this paranoia that if, or when, Jack Bristow and Arvin Sloane found out what had happened, they would eunuch him for having been touched intimately by Sydney. Yet in spite of this, he hounded her; effectively increasing his chances of being found out. He couldn't seem to stop calling her cell phone and her home phone, though she never answered either. Or following her even though one of SD-6's security details followed him. Sometimes he even just sat in front of her apartment in his car. He knew she knew that he did it, but he didn't care. Somewhere along the way he'd lost his self-control, his dignity and his sanity.

And strangely, that didn't seem so bad.

He knew he'd gladly lose them all over again if he could go back in time to that night and make her stay when she'd gone to leave.

_It was very hard to pretend to ignore a man you had carnal knowledge of_, Sydney decided. _Especially not when gaining that carnal knowledge had been a huge mistake and the man in question was stalking you and not allowing you to forget that you had made that huge mistake._ Sitting across from Sark now, Sydney struggled to maintain her nonchalant façade and feign complete unawareness of the fact that Sark had stared at her fixatedly since the briefing had began. _It really was disconcerting being the focus of that unwaveringly intense cobalt stare._ The sensation was similar to what she felt on those occasions when she'd been compromised on a mission and was faced with squadron of machine guns; as if a tempestuous churning had forced the bottom of her stomach to drop out, her head swimming with panic and adrenaline. It was not altogether a bad feeling; just uncomfortable and unwelcome and so very exhilarating.

_In a bad way of course._

Even while she thought this and pretended to ignore Sark, who she'd already concluded had gone completely insane, what Sydney really wanted to do was to stare back at Sark the way she had when they'd shared that ill-fated dinner. The one that had ended with her hands down his jeans, wrapped around something her hands never should have been wrapped around, and his begging her to stop touching him even while he strained against her hand in an effort to increase his pleasure.

In the three weeks since she hadn't been able to forget a single detail of that night; not the way he'd groaned her name, nor the extreme heat of him and the answering heat she'd felt in herself, nor the hungry way he'd kissed her and his confused and still slightly dazed expression as the elevator doors had closed. Sark's dogged pursuit wasn't helping the forgetting process, either. The constant phone calls, the untimely visits and the hot looks he was shooting at her now, in front of Sloane and her father, made her pray for a bout of mutual amnesia that didn't seem to be coming.

His relentless hounding of her endangered not only her equanimity but also her security, because if Sloane found out that she'd had 'intimate relations' with his newest asset then he'd increase surveillance on her and would eventually catch her out meeting with the real CIA, which meant game, and her life, over. But somehow when Sark trained those yearning blue eyes on her, she couldn't seem to summon up the conviction to properly dissuade him. Sure, she'd kicked his ass a couple of time, but in their relationship, a good ass-kicking was akin to foreplay and they both knew that she hadn't really meant it anyway. _Well, not much._

Jack Bristow darted a subtle glance in Sydney's direction, noting again with displeasure the bowstring tautness of the veins in his daughters neck and her hollow, distant expression. Not to mention the way that her head seemed fixed in Sloane's direction, very unusual considering that Sydney usually avoided looking at Sloane at all. Even the most imperceptive man could not fail to also note the fact that Sark had been staring at her with obvious longing and naked desire since she'd walked in and sat down opposite him.

Sark's sudden degeneration into the nervous and uncharacteristically guileless creature Jack had been observing a lot of late made more sense now. Something had happened between Sydney and Sark and Jack was quickly coming to regret bringing Sloane's attention to Sark's telling metamorphosis. Jack tallied up the evidence in his mind, looking for a plausible conclusion.

First and most telling point: Sark's composed and self-confident persona appeared to have shattered, leaving him readable, openly edgy and either uncaring or unaware of the fact that anyone with eyes could see the hungry stare that had not left Sydney since the briefing had began.

Second point: Sydney, like Sark, had seemed distracted to the point of almost unawareness of her surroundings for the better part of the last month, waking from her reverie only with external prompting and only to deliver monosyllabic answers and a superficial smile. This may or may not have been the cause of Sydney's not answering either her home and cell phones during this period.

Third point: every time Jack had been within observing distance of Sark in the past month, Sark had either stared at Sydney with single-minded fervency; stared at some small, inconsequential article like his cuff-links or a spot on the wall or had eyed Jack himself with the same apprehensive trepidation that a gazelle would a lion.

Fourth point: Sark had appeared at the office with either a limp, large new bruise or newly treated cut on his furrowed forehead at various stages in the past month.

Fifth point: Sydney had had bruised knuckles at the same time.

Sixth and final point: though she was clearly not paying attention to anything around her, Sydney's head was fixed in Sloane's direction; unusual, as he'd already noted, because Sydney openly despised the head of SD-6 and, as a petty sign of disrespect, was inclined to let her eyes wander over everything but Sloane during briefings, oftentimes even Sark, who she as a rule regarded with glacial superiority and hostile glances.

The changes in both Sydney and Sark appeared unrelated and there was nothing that definitely suggested that a common experienced was responsible for the changes in both of them. Jack knew that further evidence was needed before he could make any assumptions and seek to influence the course of events. With strengthened resolve to quell his curiosity, Jack caught Sloane's eye and noted the briefing was concluded. He gathered his papers and strode out of the meeting room, already making plans.

Not even trying to restrain himself, for he was long past trying to combat his all-consuming obsession, Sark pushed away from the wall of the parking garage as soon as the elevator doors opened, revealing Sydney. He felt desire well up just on looking at her. His heartbeat accelerated as their eyes met, and he felt a sharp pinprick of disappointment as her eyes narrowed then rolled. She sighed, visibly frustrated, and tried to walk past him to her car. He grabbed her arm, holding her near even if only temporarily.

"Sydney-" he paused, not knowing what to say.

"Don't even start with me, Sark." She wrenched her upper arm free and continued over to her car. She opened her bag, the same bag she'd had that night, and fumbled around for her keys. She found them and unlocked the door. Sark felt a burst of desperation at the thought that she was perfectly happy leaving things where they were when he was less than satisfied and growing more so as the days passed without any resolution between them.

"Sydney, just hear me out once. Once is all I'm asking."

Sydney opened the door and snorted. "And once is all you'll get, Sark, and not just because that once was a huge mistake. I don't give repeat performances"

"Sydney, can we please just talk about what happened?" He thought talking sounded very reasonable for the minute, even if all he could think about was getting a repeat performance. He was tired of this tense dance they were engaged in, where he couldn't help but keep advancing further and further, taking her refusals as encouragement. He decided to make a last ditch effort to reclaim his dignity.

"Tell me you don't want me then, Sydney, and I'll leave you alone. I promise." It hurt to say it and her eyes widened in surprise. She visibly screwed her courage to the sticking place and took a deep breath.

"I don't want you."

The words cut through him violently. He looked at her, desperate for a sign that she was lying and blessedly found one in her avoidance of meeting his eye.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple."

Sydney caught his eye then and gave him a look of pure enraged feminine exasperation as she threw her handbag roughly in the back seat of the car. Sark gave the suggesting of talking one last try.

"Can we please just discuss what happened rationally, Sydney." He let his eyes do some of the pleading, but to no avail.

"No! We can't! You need to forget about it, Sark, before your indiscretion gets us both in trouble."

Sydney got in the car and was closing the door as Sark's temper exploded. He grabbed the door and held it open.

"It was our indiscretion, Sydney! The two of us in my kitchen and me for once not having to imagine you there with me, touching me, because you were. And I can't forget, Sydney. It eats at me. Day and night, that's all I think about. And how I want more. More of it and more of you. The memories bleed into my fantasies in my head and I can't help but want more." Sark took a deep, ragged breath and flexed his fingers on the car door. His palms were sweating and his skin was on fire. His temples and his groin throbbed with the vivid remembrances that were never far from his thoughts. He looked at Sydney and was gratified to see her conflicted expression. She may not admit it, but the memories affected her, too.

"Get in the car before someone hears you" she said tightly.

Relieved and heartened by the parallel to 'the incident', he got in the front passenger's seat. They were close now, he thought in the awkward silence, but he wanted to get closer. He didn't think he could ever get close enough to Sydney Bristow, not even if he were inside her.

But he wanted to be.

He wanted to be so close that he couldn't tell where she ended and he began, so close that she could never retreat from him again. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when he had allowed his possessive and obsessive feelings to overwhelm him, but once he had he knew that he couldn't fight it, couldn't go back to his previous indifference. He turned in his seat to look at her. She sat with her fingers linked tightly in her lap, looking at them. He reached out to touch her, but she recoiled away. His hand fluttered sadly to rest, clenched, on his thigh.

"You know it can't happen again, don't you." Sydney broke the silence. It was not so much a question as a statement. She resigned herself to the truth of her words and fought not to take them back. Sark's impassioned speech had intensified the churning in her stomach; it felt like molten lava waiting to erupt. Sydney had wondered at the change in Sark since that night and at the changes he wrought in her. Those looks he'd been giving her made her want to give in to him, made her want nothing more than to succumb, to lean over and kiss his crooked pout.

He'd been so visibly edgy in the past three weeks, as if he were over-extended and didn't have the presence of mind or energy to maintain his façade. The things he'd said to her and the way he was acting, like his admission of a few moments ago and the fact that he couldn't seem to check his expression, were so honest. And so uncharacteristic. It was as if their encounter had left him a completely different person who couldn't lie, couldn't concentrate and bear the heavy weight that was his role of Mr. Sark.

She looked over at him and found him looking out of the window, his jaw muscles taut. They flexed.

"Sark, did you hear me?"

He didn't answer at first, just kept looking out of the window. Then, suddenly, he turned to face her. His eyes burned her with their intensity.

"Why?" The word was uttered in deep, low tones. His voice was hoarse, almost frighteningly so, with emotion. He leaned towards her, bracing his hand on the dashboard.

"Why, Sydney? Why can't it happen again?" Sydney didn't hazard a reply. Sark leaned closer, forcing her to press back into the window.

"Is it because of your CIA handler?" Sydney blocked her thoughts of Vaughn, a habit in the past month. She bit her lip to keep from answering, afraid she'd say the wrong thing. The implication of Sark's question suddenly occurred to her. He seemed to read her mind.

"That you are not, in fact, loyal to SD-6 is one of your many secrets that I know, Sydney. But let's not diverge from the topic at hand. Are you reluctant to further our relationship because of Vaughn, Sydney? Because of what you think you have with him?" Sark's tone was forceful now. He demanded a reply with his harsh, passion drenched voice, his accent clipped and his eyes that burned with unholy fire.

"Partly" Sydney heard herself respond in a deceptively calm tone.

"Partly?" Sark probed, brooking no argument.

"Yes. It's partly because of Vaughn and partly because of what you've done, who you are. But it's mostly because I can't get involved with co-worker, especially one I can't be seen with. That's the reason why Vaughn and I haven't-" Sark silenced with an impatient cutting gesture.

"I don't need to hear this. Not now, after what's happened. Though I'll admit I did wonder." Sark's voice had gone quieter. He was looking out of the window again. Sydney felt an out of place compulsion to comfort Sark, to sooth that pained tone. It did things to her, closing her throat and stabbing at those weak, sensitive parts of her.

Sark suddenly opened the passenger door and turned to get out of the car.

"Thank you for the opportunity to talk, Sydney. I can understand you standpoint now. I'll leave you alone in future." Sark closed the door too carefully and walked away.

"No phone calls, no visits to my apartment? No following me?" she called, opening the door.

"I said I'd leave you alone and I will" was his reply. He didn't turn around.

Watching him get in his midnight blue Mercedes, Sydney wondered if she hadn't just made another, bigger, mistake.

In the next bay of the parking garage, Jack Bristow took the earpiece out of his ear and looked over the transcript of Sydney and Sark's conversation on his laptop screen. A contact had been able to provide him with a set of bugs that, when used with a program on his computer, dictated a transcript of the transmission automatically. He planted some in Sydney's car and around it in the garage on a whim and it seemed that his whim had paid off. He now had the answers he had been looking for.

Something had happened between his daughter and his former wife's protégé in said protégé's kitchen. Something sexual, judging from Sark's comments about fantasies and Sydney touching him. It also seemed that Sark had wanted something more from Sydney and that she was reluctant to give it. Jack didn't think for a minute that when Sark said he'd leave Sydney alone, he would. Not when he'd heard Sark's whole side of the conversation and his emotional tones of voice. The question for Jack was, now that he had his answers and was up-to-date on the situationwhat should he do, if anything at all?


	3. Chapter 3

Sark was getting drunk on his kitchen floor, which wasn't unusual for him at the moment.

Jack Bristow watched him dispassionately on the monitor in his home office, moving on to the whiskey having finished the brandy the night before. The first time Jack had watched Sark through the new network of bugs he'd had installed in Sark's apartment, Sark had been unpacking a crate of very good French brandy, methodically storing them in an overhead cupboard, labels facing out. He'd been draining a bottle of vodka at the time, working in a sequence. Long swallow of vodka, set a bottle of brandy of the shelf, short swallow, adjust the bottle and its neighbours so that the label faced outward and repeat.

When the brandy was all precisely stored, Sark had arranged three bottles of whiskey in a triangle in the remaining space in that cupboard and had closed the door. Grabbing a magnum of champagne, Sark had sunk to the floor and finished his vodka. He smashed the empty bottle against the tiled floor and had pulled a pack of cigarettes and a battered metal Zippo lighter from his breast pocket. He stood them up on the floor beside his thigh, lining the Zippo up with the logo on the cigarette pack. Then he opened the magnum.

Sark hadn't gone into work the next day, naturally.

Jack had taken all of this in with a sense that he was seeing the true shell of Sark. As if the mind had gone, leaving only the body. Sark had performed each action with such precise, measured movements and with no expression on his face. Jack had watched him splash a line of champagne up his leg and set it aflame without even blinking. This had been within hours of the conversation in Sydney's car; Jack had had to call in a favour with the head of Sark's security detail to have those bugs planted before Sark had gotten home from the long drive he took after leaving the parking garage.

That had been a full month ago, almost two since whatever incident had occurred in Sark's kitchen. In that time, Sark had drunk a bottle of brandy on his kitchen floor every night, sometimes gulping it down as fast as he could and others, Sark had nursed the bottle for hours. Jack hadn't watched him every night; after realising that a pattern had been set in that first week, Jack had tapped into the constantly recording feed randomly.

Jack didn't know what to expect that first night, hadn't known how the conversation would have affected Sark who had already been behaving out of the acknowledged norm. He didn't even seem to be behaving now, just processing autonomously. This latest transformation had disappointed Jack on some odd level. Jack hadn't known how Sark would react as a consequence of the conversation, but for some reason this mindless though controlled bender had deeply annoyed him.

Watching Sark now, flicking open his Zippo, lighting it, then closing the lid, Jack questioned why he felt let down. God knows Sark's drinking didn't affect him in any way, or Sydney at this point either, now that Sark had agreed to leave her alone. The idea of Sark, Irina's protégé, pursuing Sydney so closely without her encouragement should have been more offensive to Jack than the drinking, but somehow it wasn't.

That Sark had chosen to cease his pursuit, to take the inactive option rather than the proactive option and to wallow in his own drunken self-pity was the most infuriating outcome of that conversation. Jack was riled up, provoked to the point of wanting to take definite action, but he felt that he wasn't entitled to interfere other than monitoring Sark and feeling aggravated about events he shouldn't even know about.

On the screen, Sark dribbled the last of the whiskey down his leg and idly set the trail on fire. This was Sark's favourite game, from what Jack had seen. He'd watched Sark carelessly set both legs on fire alternately on the nights he'd bothered to change out of his suit, always into jeans and a t-shirt or sweater, before resuming his binge on the kitchen floor. Sark would set a thin trail of alcohol alight on his denim encased leg and would obviously see how much he could bear before he smothered the flames out. Some nights, Sark would attempt to light a cigarette from the flames on his leg; clenching a cigarette between his teeth, he'd bend his knee, bringing the burning thigh up to meet his lowered head. He always managed it eventually.

Tonight, Sark stubbed out his last cigarette of the pack on the floor and leaned his head back against the cupboard at his back; content to watch the flames lick slowly up his thigh. Jack watched his lids lower jerkily after a while and remain shut. The flame had taken to the whiskey and the leg of Sark's jeans burned steadily, but he seemed unaware of the pain. His eyes stayed shut.

He'd gone to sleep, Jack realised. Then Jack swore. Sark had fallen asleep drunk with his leg on fire. Unless something woke Sark up, he'd likely burn down his whole apartment building with himself inside. Jack quickly grabbed his laptop in its bag and his car keys off the desk beside him. As he drove to Sark's apartment, one eye on his laptop, he realised that he'd unconsciously made the decision to get directly involved with Sark and Sydney.

Jack stepped out of the elevator into Sark's apartment and headed straight for the kitchen. Sark had luckily fallen onto his stomach before the flames had reached his torso, but both of his legs were alight and burning steadily. Pulling a fire blanket off the wall, Jack got to his knees beside Sark and rolled him on his back. He put out the fire quickly and efficiently without Sark even waking up. Then he dragged him in the direction he knew Sark's bedroom was and turned on the bathroom shower. He stripped off Sark's singed sweater and scorched jeans and pushed him under the jet of icy water, turning to fill the bath.

Sark took a while to come to, first opening his eyes and calmly taking in the sight of his developing blisters, then sitting up. Jack quickly grabbed him by the neck and pulled him out of the shower, dunking his head just as quickly under the full bath. He didn't struggle at first, then began to thrash as Jack held him under steadily. Jack pulled him out and put him back into the shower, then dunked his head in the bath until Sark fought back enough to stop him. It was then that he drew back his arm and punched Sark hard. Once, twice, then Sark blocked him and sat back against the bath gasping for air. He looked very much aggrieved, with his wet angel hair and flashing blue eyes, naked but for his soaked black boxers. Jack punched him again while he had the element of surprise.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?" Sark growled, dabbing at the broken skin over one cheekbone.

"I could ask the same of you, passing out drunk with your leg on fire." Their eyes met, Jack's censorious and unimpressed, and Sark's defiant and insulted.

"And whose business it is, other than my own, if I chose to get drunk and set myself on fire?" Sark's petulant tone earned him another dunking. Jack left him curled up in foetal position on the floor while he turned off the shower. He rummaged around the vanity cabinet and drawers looking for something to treat the growing blisters with. Sark sensed his purpose and gasped "Third drawer on the left" as he dragged himself into sitting position. Jack rubbed a salve on the burns while Sark watched without speaking. Washing his hands afterwards, Jack dried them and threw a towel at Sark.

"Get dressed. I'm going to make some coffee."

He left Sark drying himself off.

After he achieved the Herculean task of dressing himself, Sark limped out to his kitchen and found Jack Bristow sliding a freshly cooked omelette on to a dinner plate set on the counter. He smelled strong black coffee and gratefully sat down at the setting. He began to eat and drink and tried to hide his mortification. Jack's sobering him up had worked too well, clearing away the mental fog he'd worked hard to create. He could feel Jack's eyes on him as the now clean frying pan was put away and Jack began to sip at a mug of coffee. Halfway through the omelette, he couldn't restrain himself any more. He pushed the plate away.

"How did you know what I had done?"

Jack pushed the plate back to him. "Don't be naïve."

He finished off the omelette and the coffee, suddenly seeing the paternal side of Jack's personality. He didn't dare take him to task for having the presumption to interfere in his affairs, to bug his apartment.

"I've been watching you for a month." Sark froze, even stopped chewing, knowing things could only get worse. He could literally feel Jack's hands around his neck.

"I heard that last conversation with Sydney." The hands tightened, Sark's breathing constricted. He was afraid to meet Jack's eyes.

"I have a fair idea what happened between you and my daughter."

Sark wondered why then had Jack bothered to put out that fire. He could feel it again; his whole face was aflame. He wished it had consumed him. He wondered if he should apologise to Jack for having been touched by his daughter, for wanting her. Jack didn't look angry or particularly like he wanted to kill him however, but you never could tell with Jack Bristow, the acknowledged king of poker faces.

"I must say, I am disappointed that you chose to take the easy option." Sark's head snapped up; he was suddenly very far from penitent.

"Do you think this has been easy for me? Sitting on my kitchen floor every night and drinking a bottle of brandy, trying not to think about your daughter. About how she stood in the same room two months before and-" Sark stopped, remembering whom it was he was talking to. "Let's just say that what happened here was the most profound experience of my life. Unfortunately, your daughter and I don't see eye-to-eye on that. I made the stupid mistake of letting myself get emotionally involved with a woman who has loathed me from the moment we met. No, she probably hated me on sight; Sydney never does anything by halves." He paused, smirking. "Well, some things" he conceded sarcastically before he could stop himself. Jack's expression hadn't changed. He just stood there, patiently listening and sipping his coffee.

"Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, I took the hard path. I could have worn her down eventually. I haven't lost myself so entirely that I couldn't tell she was affected by what happened, too."

"I know." Jack's words were quiet but surprising. They sent a rush of short-lived joy through Sark before he remembered that his chance with Sydney was gone.

"Come on, Mr. Bristow," he scoffed, "you don't have to let me down easily. We both know that I did take the 'easy option', as you put it, and that I did it to save my tattered pride after having been given my congè" Sark folded his arms and leaned them against the countertop.

"I heard that conversation," Jack said slowly, catching Sark's eye, "and I know my daughter. You were right; she was not unaffected by whatever happened between the two of you." Jack paused, staring down into his mug. Sark was hanging on his words, trying not to make too much of them. _My chance with Sydney is gone_, he reminded himself, _she told me herself that there would be no repeat performance. _

While Sark mulled over his words, Jack watched the emotions play across the younger man's face, first hope, then blank-faced dejection and now some nameless sentiment that appeared to require intense concentration. A number of things had been made clear during this impromptu rescue visit. The first and most obvious was that Sark had taken Sydney's rejection hard, indicating that his feelings had been stirred to the point where he couldn't seem to let go and move on.

This understanding had caused another, more astounding revelation to come to light. Jack had been aware since that conversation he'd 'overheard' between Sydney and Sark that he was relieved that Sark couldn't just walk away from 'the incident', that Sark was prepared to offer his daughter more than a one-night stand, that he himself wanted more. This obvious sign of deferential esteem for Sydney and the accompanying realisation that Sark's emotions had been thoroughly and irrevocably engaged, reinforced by the month-long bout of drink and self-pity and the impassioned self-deprecating speech, had crystallized tonight into the knowledge that Jack wanted Sark to succeed with Sydney.

Jack Bristow, certainly not the world's best father but certainly one of the most protective, wanted his daughter to have a relationship with Sark, a flawed man by anyone's standards. Sark wasn't exactly ideal relationship material for a girl like Sydney, or for any girl at all; he had a complete lack of morals, was somewhat of a 'fair-weather friend' who'd betray an alliance if he stood to gain from it, had no qualms about killing and was stupid enough to fall asleep with his leg on fire. In spite of this, Jack had come to like Sark. And it was because he liked Sark, because he loved his daughter and because he could see the compatibility of the two that Jack Bristow had decided to play matchmaker.


	4. Chapter 4

While Sark had been cast into the same role of protégé to more than one mentor, he found the experience entirely different each time. With Irina, he was treated with the kind of familiarity and consideration due to a protégé who was closely linked to their mentor, either through a blood relationship or some other kind of close intimacy. This wasn't surprising considering that Irina had basically raised him, lavishing him with the affection that she couldn't give to Sydney. The business side of Sark and Irina's relationship had always been conducted as an extension of the overall education and life Irina had given Sark; in the beginning it had been a learning experience, then as Sark's knowledge had grown he had assumed certain duties in order to allow Irina to devote her attention to truly pressing matters. Sark had always understood that he was being groomed to follow in Irina's footsteps, that he would eventually inherit the whole of Irina's business concerns when it came time for her to retire.

With Sloane, Sark's role was more that of senior lackey and 'man of non-SD-6 affairs'. They both understood that they had something the other wanted and Sloane made sure to make clear who was the more dominant member of their affiliation. So when Sark came to work for Sloane it was a given that he would assume the position of Sloane's right-hand man, of a sidekick. Sark's job was basically to make Sloane's non-SD-6 business arrangement, liase with contacts and share intel. At SD-6, he was a superficial presence, designed to make the uninformed believe that Sark was there for the benefit of SD-6, not Arvin Sloane. He attended briefings, took part in missions and shared any pertinent intel he might have, but ultimately he was there in case Sloane had a whim to fulfil.

Sark's relationship with Jack Bristow was completely different to anything else Sark had even experienced. It was a combination of some of what he had had with Irina and a good measure of something else he couldn't define or categorize. Jack was clearly trying to further educate him, but he did it in such a way that Sark felt almost on equal footing with Jack, as if Jack were his friend and dispensing advice. They talked comfortably about most subjects and could also share amiable silence. Whenever Sark summoned up the nerve to ask a personal question, such as about Sydney or Jack and Irina's marriage, Jack would answer frankly. The quality of their conversation and the nature of the things they discussed surprised Sark; he never thought that he could get on with Jack Bristow as easily as he did. From Irina's stories and his own experience, Sark had always thought Jack to be a man of few words and of closely guarded secrets. The man Sark interacted now was only rarely that.

Throughout the hours Jack and Sark spent together in various pursuits, Sark was plagued by the same niggling questions. What had initially caused Jack to take the measures that had enabled him to hear that last conversation between Sark and Sydney? Why had Jack also had Sark's apartment bugged? Was it because of the conversation between Sydney and Sark? Why had Jack watched entire drunken month? What had prompted him to become directly involved and rescue Sark from his own drunken folly? What was his aim now? Over and over, Sark questioned Jack Bristow's motives for establishing their closer relationship, but to no avail. He never came any closer to discerning Jack's endgame and was not sure he wanted to if it would poison their good rapport.

One afternoon when Jack and Sark were having lunch, Sark finally summoned up the courage to ask his questions.

"How did you know to bug Sydney's car to hear that last conversation?" Sark said, quickly eating a forkful of salmon to stem the flow of further words. Jack shot him an 'at last' look and took a sip of iced water. Sark appreciated the aposiopesis but was fairly dying of suspense.

"Would you believe me if a told you it was a hunch, a whim?"

"If it were, yes."

"It was. I'd been watching you and Sydney for several weeks and I suspected that a shared experience was responsible for your both acting out of the norm. I even made remarks to Sloane to the effect of you having undergone some kind of change."

Sark forked up an asparagus spear and nodded. "Mmm, he said something to me about 'not being myself'. I hadn't been aware that I could be anything but myself"

Jack smiled in acknowledgement of Sark's quip and continued. "During one briefing as I watched you devour my daughter with your eyes, I decided that I had to take steps to appease my curiosity and find out what had happened between the two of you, if anything at all. Sydney wouldn't have appreciated an interrogation, so I acted on my hunch and bugged not only her car but also that entire section of the parking garage. I sat in my car in the next bay and waited for a confrontation. What I got exceeded my expectations and answered most of my questions."

Sark felt himself colour slightly at the memory of that conversation. He impaled the last asparagus spear on his fork and dipped it in the herbed butter his salmon had been served in. Jack expertly separated the steak from the bone on his plate and smoothly sliced a large portion of meat. He chewed it slowly.

"You know," Jack said conversationally, "whenever I come here and order this, I never remember to ask them to leave off the mushrooms. I suspect it must be my subconscious at work here, trying to get me to act my age and eat my fungi. I've always found the texture of them somewhat repulsive, almost rubbery. The smell of mushrooms cooking is even worse." Sark smiled at this. He would have found this hard to reconcile with the Jack Bristow he'd known two months ago. The Jack Bristow he knew now said things like this all the time, inviting similar comments.

They finished their meal in comfortable silence, paid the bill and left. They stood waiting for the valet to bring around Sark's Mercedes when Jack turned to Sark and asked: "Did I answer your question before? About what prompted me to take the steps I did?" he asked, mindful of the other people who also stood awaiting the valet. Sark nodded.

"Yes, but it begs the question: were you disappointed by what you heard? I'm sure I'm not the kind of man you'd want for your daughter, not with my past and my current situation." Sark felt nervous as he said the words, unsure of Jack's reply. It was as close as he'd gone to asking how Jack felt about him as an 'intimate acquaintance' of his daughter's.

Jack stepped forward and took the valet's place in the driver's seat, a privilege he took without asking now and then, while Sark got in the passenger's side unfazed.

"I was not disappointed by what I heard that day." Jack broke the silence and watched Sark from the corner of his eye as he drove. Sark was worrying his lower lip, a sure sign of inner turmoil, Jack had found. He waited for a more definite physical reaction to his words before he continued. Sark looked at him.

"But?"

"I suppose you could say that I'm disappointed that you've chosen not to continued your pursuit of my daughter. I think we discussed this already. On the night when you set your leg on fire and fell asleep." Jack suppressed a smile at the memory, watching Sark flush. They hadn't spoken of the night, but Jack remembered every word they'd exchanged. Sark met his eyes in disbelief.

"You can't have imagined I'd continue my campaign, as it were, after the set down I got."

Jack nodded, turning into the Credit Dauphine parking garage. "It was pretty harsh. I was wincing at some stages, I recall. The transcript doesn't read much better." Jack circled the lot, looking for a parking space.

"There's a transcript?"

"The bugs, when used with certain computer software, automatically created one as they transmitted the feed."

Sark groaned. "Fabulous. My greatest shame is immortalized for all time. The embarrassment is one of the reasons I went on that bender, you know."

Jack smiled. "I thought so. Would you like a copy of the transcript?" They got out of the car and Jack locked it, tossing the keys to Sark. He pocketed them before replying.

"God, no! I'd spend all of my time reading over it and analysing my mistakes and trying to plot how it could have gone in my mind. No-one likes to have the opportunity to revise their failures." They stopped at the elevator, waiting for the doors to open. Jack turned to Sark.

"The great strategist will revise his failures to discover how to improve his technique and method for next time. If he want to succeed, he can't afford not to." Jack cast Sark a significant look.

"I doubt very highly that there'll be a next time. I don't think I could cope." His tone and blatant honesty sobered Jack.

"What if things turned out differently? If instead of being refused, you were given the opportunity for the discussion you wanted and you went home with something else, something infinitely more precious than a crate of brandy?"

Sark thought about it for a moment, and then spoke. "Then you wouldn't find me drunk on my kitchen floor with my leg on fire." His words belied the intensity of his voice. Jack saw the fierce longing in Sark's expression and his resolve to help him strengthened five-fold.

"That's for sure," he agreed out loud.

While Dixon sat in his office going over the next mission's op tech, Marshall Flinkman watched Jack Bristow and Sark talking with Sloane in the main open area of the SD-6 offices. He felt ever so slightly jealous of Sark's newfound friendship with Jack, who was hard enough to talk to let alone befriend. Yet there was Jack and Sark together, conducting a conversation with Sloane. Jack often invited comment from Sark during the exchange with Sloane, judging from his gestures that included Sark in his statements and the way he nodded in agreement when Sark volunteered a comment. Marshall wondered if he should tap into the security feed to hear what they were saying. He ate the gummy hamburger in his gummy meal and turned to Dixon, who was familiarising himself with a new gadget.

"You want the gummy fries?"

Dixon looked up, confused.

"Do you want the, uh, gummy fries in my gummy meal? I've got another gummy meal if you want a hamburger. I even have some-"

Dixon interrupted him with a polite refusal.

Marshall turned back to the window and his eyes met Sark's as the latter looked quite deliberately in his direction. Sark offered a tentative half-smile and Marshall was so surprised that he choked on the gummy Coke he'd unconsciously put in his mouth. Coughing, he turned back to his desk to look for the real Coke he'd put somewhere before. Alarmed by his coughing, Dixon handed him the Coke and pounded him on the back hard.

From the door, a voice said: "You're not supposed to hit choking people on the back. You're not even supposed to give them the Heimlich Manoeuvre any more."

Marshall took a big gulp of Coke and waved to Sydney. She came forward. Marshall swallowed and attempted a deep breath. He found he could breath again.

"Hey, Syd." Dixon looked up from the gadget and greeted his partner.

"Hey, Dixon. Marshall."

Sydney wandered over to where Dixon sat and took the chair beside his. Marshall turned back to his desk to put his Coke down and found Sark staring at him oddly. Marshall rubbed at his chin in case there was any food on it. Sark just kept staring. Confused, Marshall looked around his office to see what Sark was staring at. He swivelled in his chair and found Sydney, laughing with Dixon and holding his latest gadget, a baseball cap, out of his reach. Marshall slowly swivelled back to look at Sark. Sark's eyes followed Sydney's movements intensely, though his expression and body language did not indicate anything other than momentary distraction. Jack Bristow's eyes happened to chance in the same direction and he darted a look to Sark to see if he were watching. Finding he was, Jack looked back to Sloane with a barely noticeable smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Marshall felt pole-axed by the sudden understanding of what he'd just seen. Sark had a thing for Sydney! And Jack knew! And he seemed to approve! Sark must have noticed his startled expression and realised what he'd just realised, because he shot Marshall a quick censoring look before turning back to Sloane. In a daze, Marshall turned to find Sydney looking out at Sark, her father and Sloane with an unreadable tense expression. Marshall wondered if she'd noticed Sark staring at her too. She caught him looking at her and shot him a quick smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"I keep wondering what's going on with Jack and Sark," Dixon said from behind them. They both jumped. "Do you know what's going on, Syd?"

"No!" Sydney responded, too quickly. Marshall took a cue from Dixon.

"I wonder if your dad knows something and that's why he and Sark are such good friends. I don't think your dad would be friends with a bad guy."

Sydney made a show of rolling her eyes and snorting. "They're not friends, they're just…" she paused, clearly unsure of what to say.

"No," Dixon said, "I think Marshall must be right. Jack knows something. Sloane must, too. There's no other reason to explain why Sark is still working with us." Sydney felt a rush of paranoia at the thought that her dad knew what she'd done with Sark. She'd noticed Sark looking at her before, and Marshall looking at him and had tried not to look too panicked. She didn't know if Marshall had seen past her façade.

"And why he got that great corner office," Marshall added. Dixon nodded.

"Maybe Sloane is making my dad work with Sark" Sydney said hopefully.

Dixon shook his head emphatically. "They've been out to lunch together every day this week. Last week, too. You don't have lunch with someone you don't like."

_Or dinner, _she thought before she could quash the thought. Sark's retreat had thankfully given her enough breathing room to learn to divert her thoughts away from the dangerous direction that they tried to head if she didn't actively try to control them. She was more composed and mercifully, more in control of herself, but she was still too distracted for her liking. Anything could trigger a sudden meandering off on Sark-related mental tangents, she'd found. Light reflecting off blond hair. The sound of an English accent. Even dark blue denim served to remind her of Sark's eyes, darkened by passion. She hadn't even been able to bring herself to drink a red wine since.

She had absolutely no idea what was going on anymore. Not with herself and certainly not with anyone else. Sark and her father's mysterious newfound friendship confused her as much as anyone else. She was torn in so many directions about what it could mean. It could be entirely innocent; Jack was, after all, the chief of operations at SD-6 and Sark was Arvin Sloane's newest plaything and a veritable well of nefarious knowledge and ideas. Their association could be for the benefit of SD-6 and Arvin Sloane. Okay, so if that were the case, it wouldn't be so innocent. But it could be worse; Sark could be using her father to get to her. For what reason, she didn't know. It could be revenge or it could be to get the second chance she'd ruled out as impossible.

Either way, she felt conceited just considering the ideas. Sydney didn't think she'd been hard enough on Sark that he'd want to punish her for scorning him. At the same time, she didn't think he'd go to such extreme lengths of manipulating her father, Jack Bristow, to get closer to her. But then again, Sark had been revealing all kinds of secret facets lately. She couldn't put anything past him. She had to be wary. Wariness seemed unnecessary and excessive when she considered that she hadn't had direct contact with him in almost two months. Since that day in the parking garage. He could have given up on her entirely in that time and moved on. No man would keep coming back if he was turned down every time. God, she'd even tried to make her point physically on those occasions when he'd been particularly fervent in his declarations, mostly to keep herself from giving in to him.

The whole time though, including that very moment when she'd said the irrevocable words, she'd wanted to ask if it was too late to start over, begin again. She'd apologise first, then calmly ask for a second chance. She thought it all through, knowing she could never go through with it. She knew she was doing the right thing, choosing not to get involved with Sark, but she regretted doing it all the same. Sydney realised she'd been staring pensively at nothing and had been silent too long. With skill born of too much practise of late, Sydney plastered a smile on her face and struck up some idle banter with her blessedly ignorant, but dear colleagues.


	5. Chapter 5

Jack scooped up the polished ivory die and deposited them back into the niche in the backgammon table. Sark slotted the decorative parquetry cover back into over the playing space and gulped down the last of his red wine. Jack followed suit and went to refill Sark's glass. He declined with a hand over his glass, feeling a pang of deja vu that froze him. Jack noticed his reaction and raised a questioning brow.

"It's nothing," Sark mumbled, wishing it were. Jack shrugged, but was clearly unconvinced.

Sark removed his empty glass from the backgammon table and put the coaster in the rack on the credenza on his way to the kitchen. He heard Jack move to the couch. Rinsing his glass out, Sark carefully stood it upside down on the sink and rested his head against the cool laminated surface of the overhead cupboard. It had been four months since his encounter with Sydney in this very kitchen, three since she'd so coolly assured him that he didn't have a chance with her and two months since Jack had attached himself to Sark, providing him with undemanding companionship that staved off most of the loneliness.

What he felt, however, was more sharply defined than loneliness, where one yearned for contact with other agreeable beings full stop. What Sark felt was longing, distinct and agonizing in its intensity, and for one being only.

Sydney.

Such a short word that meant so much, he mused. Six letters and two syllables that encompassed his most ardent desires, his hopes and all of his dreams. Language could glorify and at the same time not do justice to a concept or an entity. It could be a burden or gift alternately. It could cage an idea, but it also gave one the means to express an idea, to set thoughts free from the prison of the mind.

For Sark, a master of language, it had proved ineffective and restrictive. It hadn't helped him properly convey his sentiments to Sydney, otherwise then she might have given him an opportunity to explore the alien emotions that had begun to buffet him from the moment he'd become aware of her existence. It also hadn't helped him analyse his feelings, categorize them so that he could deal with them. There didn't seem to be words in any language to properly label his emotions. He had found some words too preclusive and others too inclusive. Then he'd hit upon one word as he sat drunk on his kitchen floor, one small word that might encompass everything he felt. Love.

He thought it was the brandy at first, making him maudlin, so he slept on it and earmarked it for consideration when he was sober. It didn't seem enough when it occurred to him, but it had still been a relief and a revelation. In the morning when he was sober, he found that it still emanated the same _rightness_. He'd finally found the disease to match him symptoms. He'd also found that he couldn't argue with the word and its implications and that his feelings ran deeper than he'd expected they ever could.

Unfortunately, language once again proved to be a trap, for even if he finally knew what he felt, for even if now he'd found a word to cage his feelings and keep them together in one box for analysis, the box marked 'Sydney Bristow, love for', the word did not help him much.

It didn't tell him how to deal with this new emotion.

It didn't tell him what to do if this new emotion was not playing out to his liking.

It didn't tell him what to do make this new emotion more agreeable.

It didn't tell him how to behave now that he knew how he felt.

It also didn't tell him how to win Sydney over and make her love him in reciprocation.

There was no worse torture, Sark had decided, than being in love. He wouldn't wish it on any other being, except Sydney, of course. But at the same time, he wouldn't give it up. He felt enslaved, he felt crazed, and he felt as if he'd been turned inside out, but he felt strong. He'd faced what was surely the most excruciating pain known to man and he'd born it. He hadn't overcome it and he wasn't coping especially well, but he was bearing the brunt of the force uncomplainingly. Now all that remained was work out what the hell to do about it.

_She came to him that night as she had every night for over a year. Sometimes it wasn't even night, but their encounters were always the same. _

_Passionate. Intense. So entirely different from anything else he'd ever felt before with anyone else. No one else mattered now; they could have been Adam and Eve, the only man and only woman in the entire world._

_As she slipped into his bed, he watched her graceful movements in the dim light given by the partially open curtains. Her skin glowed in the mixture of moonlight and filtered street lighting, like an alabaster idol in a darkened temple waiting for the kiss of daylight to be worshipped. _

_He sat up to meet her, spearing the fingers of both his hands through her cold silky hair to pull her mouth towards his. Her lips met his unhesitatingly and when he traced the seam between her lips with his tongue those delectable lips opened, inviting him into the warm recesses he craved to taste all through the day. _

_She knelt over his lap and her hands fanned over his shoulders to give her enough leverage to lean closer. He loosened one hand from the sleek snare of her chocolate brown hair and slid it down her bared back, tracing the vertebrae with gentle fingers. This pushed her lower body closer to his and they both resented the sheet that separated them, but they were too engrossed in tasting each other, devouring each other's mouth, to push the sheet away. She nipped at his lower lip gently and arched closer to him, settling her arms around his neck. _

_It was her that pushed the sheet away eventually, impatient as she was for skin-to-skin contact. He eased them both back slowly into a reclining position. She straddled his upper thighs and broke the kiss, licking his lower lip teasingly. Her hands began to crest over the defined ridge of his collarbone, down over his pectorals. Flirtatious and frustratingly light fingertips grazed his nipples, circling them slowly, and he gasped, arching upwards in an attempt to fuse their mouths again. She pushed him back down and continued her playful exploration of his muscled torso._

_He could feel her fingertips and her hardened nipples meandering over his sensitised skin, the inside of her thighs against the outside of his. He hungered for closer contact, for more contact between their bodies. Without warning, her lips came down to press a gentle kiss, a fleeting touch of her lips really, to his pelvic bone. He arched up again, desperate to touch her, to hold her, to satisfy himself that she wouldn't leave him. Firm hands pressed him back down and in the darkness, he watched her slide up his body._

_Her face hovered above his and he strained to touch her but his hands were imprisoned at his sides. Her hands were wrapped around his biceps and she braced herself on them, craning her neck to plant little sucking bites along his jaw line from ear to ear. He writhed beneath her, tortured by the ecstasy she promised with her sinuous movement and skilful fingers and mouth._

_She grazed his furiously engorged member with her warm, silken cleft as she sucked on his Adam's apple, causing his hips to buck in an effort to join them. He felt the light but deliberate press of her teeth around his larynx as a warning before she rubbed at him again, wringing a deep groan from him that sounded as if it were wrenched from the earth itself, so deep was its tenor._

_Again and again she tormented him; her nipples gliding up then down his stomach and chest, her tongue tracing his collar-bone with little flicks and the slight thrusting of her hips that caused him to buck against her in response, futilely struggling to unite them physically._

_On the verge, he managed to catch her hips and roll her beneath him, driving himself into her easily. The tenor of their play changed immediately; she relinquished her dominance to him as she strained to meet his thrusts. Fervent in her passion, she dug her nails into his arms and writhed. Her gasping moans made him increase the pace. She adjusted, throwing her head back and locking her ankles around his back._

_He kissed her neck, her cheek, and her forehead as he pushed her ruthlessly to her point. He felt the telltale flutters that told him she was close. The pace, her response and her rhythmic spasms had him balancing precariously on the edge himself. Her sudden intense contraction caught him and he let himself go. _

Sark woke, sitting bolt upright in bed. He immediately tried to slow the frantic pace of his beating heart by focusing on his harsh, panting breath. He drew in as much oxygen as he could and held it, then let it go slowly if a little unsteadily. His slick, sweaty skin was already cooling.

He got out of bed and padded in to the ensuite, splashing water on his face and body. He met his own eyes in the mirror. He looked haunted and he was, by dreams that would never come to fruition and an unrequited love he couldn't acknowledge. His dreams only served to reinforce this. There would never be shared climaxes between him and Sydney. There would never be anything other than that one night.

Avoiding the mirror, Sark went back to bed. There may never be anything more than that one night with Sydney in reality, but in his dreams, he spent his every night with her and she with him.

_At least a fool could dream, _he thought with a bitterly wry twist to his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Jack Bristow was plagued by a crisis of conscience. After nearly three months of planning and of carefully engineering the situation that would reunite Sydney and Sark, his scheme was beginning to come to fruition. Usually, he'd be pleased by this, but for some reason he was having doubts about the success and overall benefit of his plans. It had been four months since his daughter had dismissed Sark and she was gradually returning to her normal ebullient self. She showed no real signs of missing Sark, which disturbed Jack. It meant that she was moving on.

Sark on the other hand, was worse than ever. He was visibly edgy only occasionally now, but that seemed to be caused by exhaustion more than anything else. The companionable Sark of the earliest part of their friendship was gone, replaced by a withdrawn and worn out copy who rarely spoke, even to him. The new Sark was the most worrying incarnation yet. If Jack had thought the Sark he'd encountered drunk on his kitchen floor was at the lowest point a man could go, he was mistaken. The one he'd left lying on his couch staring at the ceiling two hours before was ten-times worse. The automaton-Sark of three months ago was better than the clearly unwell-Sark of now who had vacant bruise-blue eyes, pallid skin and an air of shell-shocked defeat.

The latest manifestation of Sark worried Jack, stirring his paternal instincts. His determination to persevere with his plan was amplified every time he saw Sark, who, cliché's aside, appeared to be and very probably was pining away for Sydney. Jack knew the feeling. He'd felt it himself almost thirty years before when he'd lost the love of his life. Sark's most recent alteration and Jack's aptitude to commiserate with his new protégé were his primary reasons for persevering with the plan. It had taken regrettably long to arrange and set into motion and Jack had feared that the time delay would seriously impact on the outcome. Thoughts of what he'd lost and the wish to save Sark from what he himself had faced were his talismans against defeat and surrender. He hoped that once Sark and Sydney were given the opportunity to explore their connection, his hasty scheming and their natural attraction would be enough for the plot to be successful.

Curled up next to him on the couch Sydney snorted, watching her five-year-old self throw a pail of seawater on a younger, darker-haired and smiling version of himself. They watched an old home movie together at Sydney's apartment and Jack had noticed that whether or not he smiled in family pictures, old film footage or even casual snap-shots was directly related to whether or not Irina as Laura had still been with them. This footage had been taken before Irina had left them, a time when they'd been the epitome of a happy family and he'd even been contemplating adding to his happy brood.

Subtly watching his daughter who was now smiling at the younger Jack chasing the younger Sydney on the screen, Jack was struck as he always was by the seemingly perfect mixture of his and Irina's features that made up Sydney's striking physical countenance. She had Irina's Slavic bone structure, but his father's jaw and chin. She had Irina's auburn hair and eyes, but his blunt-tipped fingers and broad-palmed hands. On and on it followed; his height and his mother's boyish figure, but Irina's explosive temper and easy charm.

When Sydney was born it had occurred to Jack that she was a precious gift to himself and Irina, something a human could never create, but somehow they had. She may have been less than half his size, but he knew that one day she'd grow up to be a better person than he was. It had also occurred to him that his daughter, with her miniscule fingers and delicate-looking limbs, was stronger than she looked, a fact which he was constantly grateful for, considering what she'd grown up to do for a living.

When Sydney had first joined SD-6 as a college freshman, Jack had been furious at Sloane for bringing his daughter into the deplorable world he inhabited; Jack had only ever wished for the best for his daughter and his occupation was not what he had had in mind for her. After Irina's duplicity had been revealed, Jack knew then that what he had always suspected was true- it wasn't possible to lead a normal or full life as a government agent. He knew that Sydney had come to learn this for herself and that knowledge was like an arrow to his heart.

He supposed he was like all fathers, wanting the world for his child without the problems he'd had to face. For Sydney, who he'd unforgivably wronged in his ignorant grief, he wanted to make amends and get for her what she couldn't, or wouldn't, get for herself. He knew that Julian Sark was one part of that, and that Sark could in turn give Sydney those other aspects within reason. Sydney would never have the picture-perfect, American-dream-style life she'd tasted as a child. Not the white-picket fence, the 2.5 children or the patriotic hero-type husband Sydney had imagined her handler Vaughn might be. As soon as she realised this and overcame all of her self-imposed barriers and her hesitations, then she and Sark might just be able to make something real grow out of their mutual attraction. Unfortunately, Jack didn't think she could do this on her own, so he was going to have to help her.

Sydney was beginning to regret the whim that had prompted her to invite her dad over for a trip down memory lane, courtesy of some old home movies he'd given her last year in that hatbox of old pictures and knick-knacks that had been her mom's. She watched Jack from the corner of her eyes and he looked either bored out of his brain or angry and deep in unrelated thought. She didn't want to even guess which, but she didn't want to sit there and find out. She grabbed the remote control and hit the stop button. Jack, surprised, looked at her.

"Dad, if you didn't want to watch the movies, all you had to do was say so. They're making me depressed anyway."

"What makes you think I didn't want to watch the movies, Sydney?" Jack asked, not bothering to deny her accusation. Sydney hated it when he was logical and manipulative with her.

"Dad, you weren't even paying attention. I bet you don't even know what we were watching."

"Sure I do. Our family vacation to Malibu, 1980. You had a bright red Mickey Mouse bathing suit and one missing tooth."

Sydney rolled her eyes. "Dad, I was wearing shorts and t-shirt in that movie and you can't even see my teeth. You're just inventing facts. Admit you weren't watching the movie"

Jack grinned at her, surprising her. "Or what? And I'm not inventing facts. Somewhere on this tape we go to the beach. Your mother wore a black and white bathing suit, I wore black trunks and you had a Mickey Mouse bathing suit."

Sydney hit him with a cushion laughing. "Trunks, Dad. Could you be any more old-fashioned?"

Jack shot her a look of mock indignation but ruined it by grinning. "What's wrong with the word 'trunks'?" He wrenched the cushion Sydney reclined against out from behind her and swatted her with it. Sydney returned the blow and soon they were engaged in a fully-fledged pillow fight.

As he mockingly wielded his cushion as Thor would his magic hammer, complete with strongman poses and affected booming guffaws, Jack wished that Sark could be there with them to share in their merriment. If his plan were successful, he thought, then Sydney and Sark could be sharing similar light-hearted fun soon.

_And one again you'll be alone because then Sydney and Sark will have each other, _a small voice in his head chimed in, _and_ _no one likes a third wheel. _

_I won't be one, _Jack vowed.

Sark rolled over and hit his alarm clock to turn it off, swiping it onto the floor for good measure. Beams of light made bars on his bedroom wall and dust motes floated in glare. Another restless night had come and gone, filled with dreams he would never live out and sleep that did nothing to reenergize his body. He was worn out and he knew it, knew the damage running on empty could do, but a self-destructive quirk urged him to keep going, to persevere. A rational voice told him hourly that life would be easier if he weren't so damned exhausted, that he would be better able to cope with his emotions. A Byronic voice played on the self-destructive element and had Sark stupidly allowing himself to play the romantic martyr, perishing for love. _God, I'm pathetic, _was not an uncommon thought these days.

Dragging himself out of bed and into a bracingly cold shower, Sark did as he did every work day and fought the sense of dread that threatened to send him back to his empty bed indefinitely. The thought that Jack might take it upon himself to rouse him from that empty bed usually helped to combat the trepidation.

SD-6itus he had named it, somewhat unoriginally.

He dried himself and filled the coffee maker with beans he'd ground before bed last night and then forced himself to get dressed. He'd begun to wonder what would happen if he went into SD-6 unshaven and unsuited, maybe even dressed in those jeans he'd fallen asleep on fire in on that last eventful night of his month-long bender. The jeans were scorched badly and sported an impressive hole from the thigh to mid-calf of the left leg. Not even Marshall Flinkman, who wore sneakers with his sports jacket and tie, would be that slovenly. Sloane would probably have him beaten and sent to McCulloch for a psych evaluation. The thought was not entirely unpleasant, he mused as he shaved. Might in fact be just the thing to break up the tedium of allowing oneself to waste away from unrequited love.

He knotted his tie and then bolted a mug of coffee, refilling it quickly. The daily practise of scalding off his taste buds had become a bit of a pulse check, reminding himself that he was not dead yet. For an extra wake-up kick, Sark added a large slosh of fine single-malt whiskey to his travel mug of coffee from a flask he slipped into his jacket pocket, appreciating the double-edged burnt taste in the lift down to the car. He gave himself his morning pep talk on the way to the city and pulled into the Credit Dauphine parking garage feeling like an eighty year old with bad arthritis.

Better than usual.

The slap of a folder hitting the table in front of her made Sydney jump. She looked up to find Sloane regarding her curiously and she gave him a quick 'hello' smile before she opened up the wallet and superficially began leafing through the papers. Dixon slipped into the chair next to hers and she smiled in greeting.

"Shall we begin?" Sloane asked. Marshall piped up from the other side of the table.

"Shouldn't we, uh, wait for Mr. Bristow and Sark or are-" Sloane cut him off.

"Yes, we must wait on Jack and Sark." Sloane sat down and interlocked his fingers, surveying the three from the head of the table. Marshall visibly squirmed and Dixon nodded in acknowledgement before opening his own folio. Sydney pretended to be engrossed in a map of some kind.

"So, Sydney," Sloane said after a while, "how is your friend, the reporter? Will, I believe his name is." Sydney picked up on Sloane's attempt to start a conversation and tried not to grimace.

"He's good," Sydney volunteered after a pause, "he was fired from the paper a little while back, as you would already know, but he just got a new job writing for a small travel magazine."

Sloane nodded absently, watching Jack walk into the room. "Good, good. We can now begin."

Jack took his seat. "I couldn't find Sark," he said, frowning. Sloane frowned himself.

Sydney felt her heart take up a rapid tattoo at the mention of Sark and lowered her head lest she betray something.

She'd seen him on and off in the past three months and prayed that the run of missions that didn't need group briefings would continue, fearing her potential reaction if she got within earshot of his seductive voice. Even after the period they'd spent avoiding each other, she couldn't guarantee that she wouldn't jump on him and demand that they finish what they'd started five months earlier. The only thing that stopped her issuing a booty call some nights was the thought that he could have moved on and could very well be entertaining some leggy model at his apartment at that very moment. The plan was to avoid making herself look as big an idiot as Sark had, she though, rather uncharitably.

"We must find Sark," Sloane muttered. Aloud, he said; "Has anyone tried his office?"

"And the coffee room," Dixon said. Turning to her, he explained. "Jack asked me to tell Sark about the briefing and I couldn't find him. His office door was locked and no one answered when I knocked."

"Yes," Jack agreed, "I was looking for him as well." He paused. "We have a matter to discuss," he explained.

Sloane stood and began to pace. "The fact that two of my best men couldn't, together, finds one other man inside a reasonably small facility astounds me. I'm starting to think that I overestimated the capabilities of my agents."

Dixon's brows lowered defensively. "This isn't the first time he had evaded us, sir."

"You seem to forget he's on our side now," Jack said, looking straight at Sydney.

Sydney was confused by his expression and mentally shrugged.

"Maybe I could find him, Mr. Sloane," Marshall volunteered quietly. Sloane shook his head.

"No, no. I think Jack and Dixon can find Sark, given another opportunity."

"Has it occurred to anyone, "Sydney asked, "that Sark might not be in today?" The squabbling was getting ridiculous and was giving he a headache. Everyone turned to look at her. Jack shook his head decisively.

"His car is in the car park. Security says he went into his office and hour ago and no one has seen him since."

"So he's still in there, then" Sydney reasoned.

Dixon shook his head now. "No. The door's locked and no one answered when I knocked," he repeated, as if to children.

Sydney was not the only one unconvinced that this meant Sark was not in his office. She raised an eyebrow and Dixon seemed to realise what his words meant. His mouth opened in a soundless 'oh'. Jack walked to the door.

"I'll go try again, shall I?" he said, not bothering to wait for an answer. Sloane sat back down, apparently convinced that the problem was solved.


End file.
